


Ficlet: Peeling Potatoes

by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett (xaandria)



Series: Between The Lines [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Confession, M/M, Pre-Relationship, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8494354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Jacqueline%20Albright-Beckett





	

He was slicing carrots. Cas was peeling potatoes at the sink. The sizzle of the beef and onions in the bottom of the stew pot and their accompanying savory aroma filled the air. Things were _normal._

And then Dean had looked up, about to say something - what exactly had completely abandoned him - and his eyes caught at Cas’s steady hands, drawing the knife’s edge along the skins precisely, not a wasted motion as the peels curled into the bottom of the sink, all in one piece. His face wasn’t intent or lost in thought, but calm; he was focused on what his hands were doing, giving it the requisite attention but not to the exclusion of all else.

The movements were so ordinary, his eyes so content, everything from the set of his shoulders down to his bare feet so at odds with the shape of Castiel inhabiting Dean’s mind that it made him blink.

Cas seemed to sense Dean’s eyes; he glanced over, his hands not stopping their work. “How many did you want?” he asked, indicating the small pile of peeled potatoes next to him on a towel.

Somehow Dean’s mouth was very dry. “That’s good,” he managed, forcing his voice to be even but only managing gruff. He wrenched his eyes back down to his carrots. They were uneven, haphazardly cut, and he set his mind to the task of undoing the damage, ignoring the sudden flush of heat that had begun creeping up the back of his neck.

In that strange, oddly removed moment of normalcy, he’d seen Cas not as a fallen angel, or as his friend; he’d almost been a stranger, and the process that had run through Dean’s mind had come to the conclusion that the stranger was attractive. Someone Dean wouldn’t mind touching - a hand resting on the shoulder, or maybe pressing lightly at the small of the back. Someone Dean wouldn’t mind touching _him_ , with those careful hands given a new objective more suited to their supple dexterity.

The realization stunned him, and its implications began percolating through Dean’s mind with such force that the carrots lay forgotten in front of him.

That Cas was a man was really beside the point. Dean had known for some time now that gender was not as insurmountable an issue to him as he’d been brought up to believe; knowing that and being at peace with it, however,  were two completely different animals, ones that he had always assumed he would wrestle with when he had the energy. Or a good reason. Like the one rinsing the knife in the sink before he cubed the peeled potatoes.

Because of course it was Cas. It was painfully obvious, now that he had seen it; it had always been Cas. Dean stared unseeing at the carrots as it dawned on him that he’d never even noticed the slow, steady spiral of falling in love, but it was undeniably there now: a great yawning sensation in his chest that had hidden for - for who even knew how long - waiting for this exact moment.

This moment of mundane domesticity, devoid of demons or monsters or angels, free of fear or urgency, when he could look up and see a man peeling potatoes and finally feel for the first time.

And then Cas looked up, mouth open to ask a question about his potatoes, and Dean found that he’d abandoned his carrots and had been staring at Cas for some time now.

“Dean?” he asked uncertainly.

The words were there, perhaps not the ones that Dean wanted to say, but words were there and ready to pour out. He almost reached up to cross the space between them, pull Cas closer, and say everything without even using words.

Instead, he blinked, and closed his mouth. This was a fragile thing. It needed the same slow, circling approach with which it had gripped him, lest he break it with haste.

“Can we talk? After dinner?” he asked instead, choosing his words carefully.

Cas’s brow furrowed in bewilderment, but Dean thought he saw the tiniest flickering of understanding, as well. “Of course.”

Dean could see the play of a smile at the corners of Cas’s eyes and he very nearly smiled in return.

Cas returned to his potatoes. Dean watched him; the set of his shoulders, down to his bare feet on the tile, settled into a new shape in his mind. It was still Cas. But now it was Cas as Dean had always known him, but had simply never _seen_ with anything other than his eyes.

And, in the way of all things that are new, it was brimming with potential.


End file.
